


Losing Sleep: Five Times Dean Didn’t Say It

by kowaiyoukai



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Things, Angst, Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Episode: s01e13 Route 666, Episode: s01e18 Something Wicked, Episode: s03e08 A Very Supernatural Christmas, Episode: s03e11 Mystery Spot, M/M, Pining, Pre-Slash, Subtext
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-28
Updated: 2008-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-30 20:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kowaiyoukai/pseuds/kowaiyoukai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean doesn't say it, and he can't tell when other people mean it, either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Losing Sleep: Five Times Dean Didn’t Say It

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd. I got this idea from that Five Things meme that was going around a while back. It took a while to write, even though it’s short, but I hope it’s worth it. Also, my first attempt at both SPN fanfic and at something resembling wincest. Oh, be still my beating fangirl heart. Feedback is love, people. <3

The last night he saw her as she was meant to be, Dean’s mother put him to sleep after they kissed Sammy good night. She leaned over him and whispered it in his ear, soft but clearly, just like she did every night. Then she moved to kiss him on the forehead, but Dean wriggled away.

“ _Mom_ ,” Dean complained, blinking up at her. “I’m too old for that now. Sammy’s the baby.” His lips were pressed together in not-quite-a-pout.

His mother smiled and ran a hand over his forehead slowly, pushing his hair back. “You’re growing up too fast,” she murmured.

Dean squirmed and then relaxed into his mattress. “You can baby Sammy all you want.”

“Why, thank you,” she said, still smiling down at him. “I guess we’ll take care of Sammy together, right?”

“Right,” Dean replied, nodding once, seriously.

Dean’s mother patted his head once and then got up. She walked to the door just as she had done every other night before, turning around just before she closed it to say, “Good night, Dean.”

“Night,” he called back.

She closed the door almost all the way, leaving just enough light to see by so that Dean would know there was nothing to be afraid of in the dark.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Dean waited in the living room while his father comforted Sammy. He had watched from the doorway for a minute, but the longer he watched his father comfort Sam, the more uncomfortable he got. The first thirty seconds had felt more like ten minutes, and he shuffled his feet and looked awkwardly away until he decided to just be somewhere else.

The couch wasn’t far enough away from the door to completely block his view of the room, but sitting anywhere else felt too much like an admission of guilt, so he just pointedly looked at the blank screen of the television. At the very edge of his vision, Dean could make out one of his father’s arms wrapped around Sam’s shoulders and a look on his father’s face that he had never seen before. His father’s eyes were too wide, or narrow, or maybe they had always been just that very size but now the light was reflecting off them in a way that made them seem different. And maybe he was squeezing Sammy too hard, or maybe he had never squeezed either of them like that before, but watching his father hold Sammy that close to him was confusing. Had he ever held Dean like that? Not that Dean wanted to be held like he was some infinitely valuable, easily destroyed object, but…

Had he?

His father came out of Sammy’s room and Dean pretended he wasn’t watching him close the door and walk over to the couch. John sat down on the opposite side of the couch, as far away from Dean as he could get. Not that he noticed. He also didn’t notice how his father still hadn’t looked at him, or how the door to Sammy’s room had been left open just enough to make out his younger brother’s form lying down, lit up from an odd angle by the old, washed-out light from an overused nightlight.

“You were supposed to protect him.” His father’s voice was barely constrained. Dean wondered why he wasn’t outright shouting, remembered Sammy’s open door, and didn’t respond to his father’s comment even though he knew he was expected to. “I told you to protect him.”

Dean wanted to say something. Maybe something about how he was tired of being stuck inside all the time and that he had just wanted to have some fun for once. The words were on the tip of his tongue—that watching out for Sammy all the time was important, he knew that, but that sometimes he was exhausted. Sometimes he just wanted to relax and eat the last bit of Lucky Charms himself, or watch something besides cartoons, or play a video game without worrying about whether Sammy was safe. He wanted Sammy to be safe, he really did, but he also wanted…

Well, he didn’t know what he wanted. But he knew he wanted it. He wanted it so badly his whole body thrummed with anticipation. Sometimes, when he went out to buy groceries, he’d see a mother with her kids, and they’d be walking along and talking things off the shelves as if what they had wasn’t great—as if what they had wasn’t everything he wanted. Or he’d see a father driving by, maybe stopped at a red light, and the kids in the car would be laughing and poking each other, looking relaxed even when they were arguing, looking as if they never even thought about monsters. Then Dean would walk slower and stare, or sometimes he would speed up and carefully not look at them, even when their laughter drifted out of the open windows and down the street, following him long after the light had changed.

It wasn’t that he knew what that feeling was. He didn’t. But he felt it rip into his heart, and that blood would start circulating all through his body, running down his arms and legs and back up to his head until he could barely see in front of him. Because protecting Sammy was important, but this was something else that couldn’t be defined and therefore couldn’t be important or not. It simply was the way things were. He knew how to protect Sammy, had known it for years. But he had no idea what to do about this.

So he couldn’t define it, didn’t know if it was important, and didn’t know what to do about it. The idea was too large and uncertain to hold onto, and he didn’t have any words to describe the feeling anyway. His father was still waiting for a reply.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Dean’s voice sounded strange, even to him. It was too flat and low. He didn’t know what was wrong with it. “It won’t happen again.”

His father still wouldn’t look at him. “Damn right it won’t,” he said, and because it was even quieter than Dean had spoken, Dean could think it was only his father muttering to himself.

The silence grew so thick Dean could barely think beyond wondering when it would end.

“You knew I was on a hunt. You knew,” his father paused, not for effect because Dean knew his father never thought about how his words sounded, but to close his eyes and run a hand across them. It must have been a long hunt, Dean thought. He must be tired. “And you still left Sammy alone.” His father looked at him then, turned his head and stared right into his eyes, and Dean saw accusation there. “There’s nothing more important than protecting Sammy. Nothing. You know that.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Dean repeated. His traitorous mind replayed that one word over and over again. Nothing.

His father nodded once, then said, “All right. Just so we’re clear.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean said. He remembered the woman in the aisle and the man in the car.

There was a brief silence before his father said it, but Dean’s mind was still repeating that one word. He could only think: nothing.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The necklace was heavy around Dean’s neck. He’d only been wearing it for about a week now and the feel of it was still enough to distract him when he was going to sleep at night. It was annoying, and the cord itched a bit, and sometimes the pendant pressed into his chest at an awkward, painful angle. When he woke up in the mornings, there would be this red mark that looked almost purple or black on his skin wherever the gold pendant had settled for the night. After an hour or two it would fade away, and he’d forget about it until he woke up the next morning to find another almost-bruise two or three inches away from the previous one.

It was New Year’s Eve, and the only reason he knew this was because when Sammy had turned on the television, the first thing they had seen was the countdown. The old guy who was talking over the picture of the infamous giant ball was saying that there were thousands of people in the crowd. Dean figured there must be, since all of them looked like tiny multi-colored splotches, blending into each other and moving about at their own will. Plus, the noise underneath the announcer was a muffled sort of roar, the kind he only ever heard when they were watching something with a lot of people making all sorts of sounds too far away for the microphone to pick up. It ended up being this weird mix of colors and a murmur that seemed like it could be loud, if he could only hear it properly.

Sammy was sitting next to him on the couch, close enough that their legs could touch if either of them moved. Dean liked sitting that close to Sammy. It was comfortable. There was none of the confusion and awkwardness he got like when he was around his father. Sammy didn’t expect impossible things from Dean. Sammy was happy simply knowing that Dean was nearby.

“This is stupid,” Dean said, scowling at the television. “The year’s gonna change even without the big dumb-looking ball.”

Sammy rolled his eyes. He was beginning to do things like that, use gestures and say what he wanted to in ways he never did before. Dean figured it might have been Christmas, or the prolonged absence of their father, or maybe Sammy had been changing for a while and Dean hadn’t noticed. It was hard noticing someone growing up when you saw them every day, and Dean figured it was even harder when they barely went anywhere without each other.

Maybe Sammy was noticing Dean change, too. Dean didn’t feel any different, but he knew he was getting taller, and any other differences were either too small or too important to notice.

“Let’s just watch it, Dean.” Sammy’s voice was laced with cajoling, and Dean wondered when Sammy had learned just the right tone to get what he wanted. “It’s tradition.”

“Yeah, well, screw tradition,” Dean muttered, but he sat there and stared at the announcer until the commercials came on. Then he stood up and walked to the kitchen. “You want anything?” he called over his shoulder.

“A coke, please,” Sammy answered.

Dean returned and handed Sammy a can of soda. “How much time’s left?” he asked, figuring Sammy had been paying closer attention to the counter in the corner than he had.

“Eight minutes.” Sammy stared at the commercials, leaving Dean to entertain himself until the stupid show came back on. He ended up fingering the cord of the necklace, unintentionally, and played with the pendant for a few seconds before letting it drop back on his chest. “You don’t have to wear it.”

Dean looked over at Sammy, who was looking back at him with a small smile. “What?”

“If it’s uncomfortable, I mean.” Sammy shrugged and took a quick sip of his soda. “You don’t have to wear it.”

“Sammy—”

“I won’t mind or anything,” Sammy interrupted, and his voice was so upbeat that Dean immediately felt himself grow tense.

“I told you already, didn’t I? I’m wearing the necklace because I want to. Stop being such a girl.” Dean figured that would be the end of the conversation, and he was hoping Sammy would agree.

When Sammy didn’t say anything else, Dean wondered if he had said something wrong. This was exactly why he hated talking about stuff like that. He never said what he meant to say—his words came out all twisted and wrong and he wanted to take them back, but that was the thing with words. Once you said them, you couldn’t undo it. And he didn’t know how to talk to Sammy except by making fun of him, but he thought Sammy knew that and it wasn’t a big deal.

“Dean,” Sammy said, almost yelling. Dean looked at him, but Sammy’s eyes were on the television, and they were shining. The off-white light made small squares in his eyes, and Dean swallowed, wondering why his throat had suddenly gotten all rough and sore. “The count down’s starting!”

Dean looked at the television, and sure enough, the ball was dropping and people were shouting out numbers loudly. Everyone was standing still and looking up, chanting together, but they were all ready to go crazy and jump and scream and run around as soon as midnight hit. But they were all so far away, and Dean found himself looking back over to Sammy.

Sammy was still looking at the screen, and he was shouting the numbers along with the old guy and all the other people. They were already at five, and Dean figured he’d miss out on all the fun if he didn’t count down at all. He grinned and shouted along with Sammy, who was now facing Dean and grinning right back at him.

Sammy was looking back and forth between Dean and the television, and Dean watched him turn his head quickly a few times, as if he didn’t want to miss anything that was happening. Dean briefly thought maybe he should do something more entertaining than just sitting there shouting out numbers, but they were already at one and then Sammy yelled the same thing everyone else was yelling and flung himself at Dean. Dean was yelling but cut himself off when he felt Sammy’s arms fling around him—one around his neck and the other around his back.

Dean wanted to say something about how Sammy was too old to be doing things like that, but it didn’t seem to matter to either of them. He thought he should be hugging back, but Sammy was blocking one of his arms and the back of the couch was blocking the other one, so he ended up just sitting there, wondering what he should do.

Sammy said it, and Dean’s whole body wanted to shake, but it didn’t. He wanted to say it back. He didn’t understand why, when his mouth opened, he only said, “Yeah.” Sammy didn’t notice, and when he let go of Dean he was still grinning.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Even though Cassie had asked him to be honest with her several times, she didn’t seem to be taking the truth too well. Her jaw was clenched together, and her eyebrows were furrowed, and she was giving him that look he hated—the one that meant he was going to have to quickly decide whether to leave or apologize. There was no arguing things over with her. She wasn’t open to talking with him about things she didn’t want to talk about, even when he knew they needed to be said. She expected things to be her way. She was the polar opposite of Sam in every way, and at first that had been what Dean wanted. Someone who wasn’t like Sam at all. But now that things were getting serious, Dean realized he was just so used to dealing with Sam that he had no basis on how to deal with someone who was too much like he himself was.

But Sam was gone, and Dean needed to learn how to get by with other people.

“I don’t believe you,” Cassie said. He wasn’t sure if that meant she didn’t believe what he was saying, or that she didn’t believe he would have the nerve to say it, or something else entirely. But she looked pissed enough that Dean knew she’d explain herself if he just waited for it. “After all this time, you think you can just _lie_ to me?”

“I’m not lying,” Dean said, fighting to keep his irritation down. “I know it’s hard to believe—”

“ _Hard_ to _believe_?” Cassie repeated his statement with as much scorn as she could. If this had been any other conversation, Dean would have been impressed. Instead, he grew even more irritated. “It’s _impossible_ to believe! I asked you to tell me the truth about why you and your father have to move around all the time—”

“I _am_ telling the—”

“And you just come out with this stupid story that I’m supposed to believe?”

“Yes,” Dean said, shouting now. “Yes, you’re supposed to believe it!”

“Why?” Cassie asked, half-mocking and half-derisive. “Because you say so?”

“Yes, because I say so!” Dean shouted, throwing his hands up in the air. “What else do you want from me?”

“The truth!”

“I just _told_ you—”

“You _liar_ ,” Cassie said, drawing the word out. “If you don’t want to tell me, just say so!”

Dean opened his mouth to shout some more, but snapped it shut. It was late, they were supposed to be having sex right now, and instead they were arguing. Again. They were always arguing when they were supposed to be having sex, and Dean was tired of it. He was tired of working all day just to come over to her place at night and fight. He was tired of defending himself. If she had been Sam, they wouldn’t even be having this conversation. Even if they did, Sam wouldn’t think he was lying. He was sick and tired of dealing with Cassie, and he was sick and tired of comparing her to Sam all the damn time.

“What do you want me to say?” he finally asked, staring Cassie down. “Huh? What should I say?”

“The truth,” she repeated, and her voice was just as exasperated as his was. “I can’t be with someone who lies to me.”

Dean didn’t know how she had meant to say it, but he knew there was only one way to take a comment like that. He stared at her for a minute, deciding to try one last time to give her what she wanted. It was only right that he try. Not everyone was going to understand him like Sam did. He would need to get used to trying more than he wanted to, more than he felt comfortable with doing.

“I already told you,” Dean said, voice strong and sure. “Anything else I say would be a lie.”

Cassie’s eyes hardened. “Well, you’re a liar either way.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Dean.” Then Cassie said it, but her eyes were still hard and her voice was cold enough that Dean wondered if it was even true.

As he left, he figured this was the only way things could have ended. After all, he had known from the beginning that he wouldn’t apologize.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“You’re _what_?”

Sam sighed and massaged one of his temples with his hand. He splayed the fingers of his other hand out on the table, laying them flat next to the napkin. Dean was staring at him, but he still noticed the movements of Sam’s hands. He had grown accustomed to noticing how Sam moved over the years—big things like how he walked and the gestures he made when he was angry, and little things like the way he pressed his lips together when he was thinking and how far back he leaned in the passenger seat when he really liked a song that came on. Now, though, Sam was sighing too often and running his hands through his hair so much his hair was almost flat. He was shifting how he sat every few seconds, and he was darting suspicious glances around, even towards the menu on the wall. He was nervous and scared and maybe even a bit paranoid, and Dean had no idea what to do about it.

“I said, I’m re-living—”

“I heard you, I just don’t believe it,” Dean cut him off. “Why would you be re-living the same day over and over again? Why wouldn’t I remember it? Come on, it makes no sense.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know, Dean. But every day, you die. And I have to watch it.”

Dean stiffened and moved awkwardly a little farther away from Sam. “I _die_?” He twisted his lips and swallowed. “Are you sure?” Sam leveled a look at him. Dean waved a hand in the air. “Okay, right, sorry.”

There were a few moments where Sam kept on eyeing anyone who moved and Dean looked out the window. He believed Sam was telling the truth. Sam had repeated everything he said, he’d caught the ketchup bottle, he had ordered exactly what Dean was going to—all of that helped. But the most important thing, the convincing argument, was how Sam was moving. He honestly believed that he was repeating the same day. That was enough.

“Okay, so we go find the sonofabitch what did this and salt and burn ‘em,” Dean said, the words coming as naturally to him as they always did.

“Dean,” Sam said, and then he stopped for so long Dean wasn’t sure if he was going to hear the rest. “I don’t… I mean, what if we don’t?” Dean gave Sam a look this time. “I know. It’s just… I can’t keep on losing you.” Sam gave Dean an awful smile, one Dean never wanted to see again. His lips were pulled upwards the wrong way—it was a horrible mimicry of Sam’s usual blindingly happy grin. “I just can’t.”

“Don’t worry, Sammy. We’ll find a way.” Dean shrugged and tried to look relaxed. “We always do.”

But as the day wore on and nothing came up, Dean began to worry. Sam hadn’t been too specific and Dean hadn’t wanted to ask, so all he could do now was wonder. How many times had Sam lived through this already? How many different ways had Sam watched him die? This might be the one time Dean wouldn’t be able to help Sam. Of course, there’d be other times, later, when Dean would be gone and Sam would need to get used to working alone, but they never talked about that and Dean figured thinking about it wouldn’t do any good either. They were together now, and Dean would help Sam get out of this no matter what.

At the end of the day, they still had no idea what was going on. Sam looked worn out, but he was acting more cheerful than before. They got back to their hotel room and sat down on their respective beds, facing each other and not talking for a full minute.

“So,” Dean said, then wondered what he had been planning to say after that.

“So,” Sam repeated. “We didn’t figure it out.”

“Nope,” Dean said. He laid back down on his bed and stared at the ceiling. “But I’m still alive.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. He leaned his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands. “So maybe today’s the last day, and tomorrow will actually be the thirteenth.”

“Here’s hoping,” Dean said. It sounded off-handed, but he really meant it. The idea of Sam living through day after day of Dean dying and not being able to escape from it was… horrifying. Slightly funny, in a morbid way, but overall horrifying.

A sharp pain pierced through Dean’s chest, clenching around his heart and making his whole body seize. He started shuddering and choking, and his hands flew wildly up to grab at his chest. He couldn’t breathe properly, couldn’t think properly, could only think, _Oh fuck. I’m having a heart attack_.

“Dean!” Sam shouted, and Sam’s face was right next to Dean’s. He was crying, and the tears were stuck on his lower eyelids. Dean knew when Sam blinked they would fall, and he found himself wondering whether or not Sam would blink. Had he blinked, the other times Dean had died? Had he cried at all?

“Dean,” Sam said, so roughly his voice barely came out. He blinked and Dean felt a wet drop hit his cheek. “Dean, Dean, Dean.” Sam was saying his name, over and over again, and Dean was almost glad he wouldn’t remember this because the pain in his chest wasn’t nearly enough to drown out the knowledge that Sam needed him this much, that Sam wanted him and depended on him and loved him this much. It was impossible to think past that.

With his face just inches away from Dean’s, Sam said it. Dean’s throat was too tight to respond, he was choking and couldn’t say anything, he didn’t even know what to say. He didn’t have too long to think about it. His last thought was to wonder if Sam had said it to him before, and the thought before that was simply knowing that he should have said it back.

But it didn’t really matter. He would be alive again tomorrow, and he wouldn’t remember anyway.

 

_fin._


End file.
